


so sit back and watch the bed burn

by sansbanshees



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Body Horror, F/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension, but that's pretty typical for laura isn't it, emotional tension, laura you are such a goddamn mess, spoilers for season 2 episode 5, tiny bit of pining if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 16:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18392288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansbanshees/pseuds/sansbanshees
Summary: There’s a moment, between the door of Coq Noir and the next street corner, where Laura nearly turns back.





	so sit back and watch the bed burn

There’s a moment, between the door of Coq Noir and the next street corner, where Laura nearly turns back.

 

It’s bullshit. A trick. A _lie_ , and a good one at that, a metaphysical mind and body fuck dressed up as something more.

 

She hadn’t thought that ginger fuck capable of the finesse it takes to sell such authentic outrage at her assessment of the shit show he’d suckered her into. And she’d gone, hadn’t she? _Gladly_. Trusting in that selfish want of his to get his magic fucking penny back to keep him honest, a hesitant buoyancy in her spirit at the first taste of food, at the noxious caress of cigar smoke against her cheeks. She’d even let herself entertain the notion of considering the possibility of believing that she might _really_ be this close to life, more the fool than she’s ever allowed herself to be before. She’d trusted him, _again_ , and he’d fucked her twice over.

 

For such a thorough fucking, he’d barely moved when he was inside of her. He’d looked as surprised as she was to find him buried between her legs. She’d expected the Baron. He’d expected—Brigitte, she presumes, but after the initial surprise, he’d looked…afraid. A little desperate, something like longing in his eyes when she took the reins to finish what was started, but longing for what? His coin? Could he feel it inside of her, so close, yet so far away?

 

Maybe they’re more alike than she thought. Maybe they both want things they’ll never have. And he won’t get his, not ever, she’s far too selfish to give it to him now that her every hope has been dashed to fucking pieces.

 

Two drops of blood, infused with love; the final ingredient. Love for _her_ , that’s always the way these things work in stories, and she’d laugh if she didn’t think it would lead to ugly tears because where the fuck is she going to get that? _Shadow_? It’s an order so tall it might as well be impossible, given her husband’s inability to even give a fuck that she’s dead, and her inability to not _fuck other men_. What fucking good is a half-baked resurrection potion she’ll never be able to use? Shouldn’t her stolen luck be a _little_ more accommodating than that?

 

_You know, you could try a little gratitude, every now and then._

 

Laura pauses mid-step, maggots roiling in her throat, one hand reaching out to press at the wall beside her as her head drops forward.

 

She’s not defeated. She still doesn’t believe him. But if he walks out that door—if he comes to find her, to tower over her as if he thinks his size means _anything_ in this equation, and spits more fury at her for daring to question his motives, she might start to. Things could go back to the way they were, a reluctant partnership filled with rancor and insults, familiar and obnoxiously comforting.

 

She’s missed it. She misses it. It’s a truth come too late to offer up as a payment and one she’d never admit out loud under any other circumstances, the shape of it caught on the back of her tongue like a burr, and for good reason. He’d never let her hear the end of it if it rattled loose. She can practically hear the ugly delight in that snide little laugh of his.

 

_Gone sweet on me, have you, dead wife?_

 

Death would be a mercy compared to dealing with _that_.

 

And yet.

 

“Come on,” Laura mutters, from between gritted teeth. Some version of a pep talk for herself or a request she hopes he’ll grant—she’ll decide after the outcome.

 

She won’t go back. She can’t. She’s taken her stance, found her hill to die on, and she won’t be moved—unless he moves first. An unstoppable force to meet her immovable object.

 

It’s sobering, realizing she would yield if he would just attack, already. She’d _have_ to. One more good hit and she’s done for, her insides will be on display all over again, maggots writhing in rot and a weird, reluctant affection she might actually have to face. She might be dead, she might be super-powered, but she’s hardly made of stone—she’s far more fragile than that. And he knows it, doesn’t he? He’d handled her too gently, all the savagery gone out of his hands, the pressure of his grip on her hips increasing only gradually to hold her steady while she rose and fell and finally crested, as if he believed the old fashioned, sexist, and frankly insulting conjecture regarding her size against his— that she’s breakable, that _he_ can break her, that she is a walking, talking fault line in danger of cracking open if he doesn’t tread lightly, and maybe he was right to think it, but not because she’s _small_.

 

She’d bought it, in that moment. The care. That _something_ was there, some nebulous feeling, a connection that just fit.

 

She thought that it would be—rough, with him. Hateful. A snarling battle that neither of them would dream of conceding. That she’s thought about it at all is not ideal but it was idle, just a wondering that flitted through her brain because she was bored while he slept cocooned in blankets in the ice cream truck like a giant baby beside her, complaining even in his sleep about the cold. The thought hadn’t lasted long—she’d reached back to dig out an ice cream cup and chucked it at his head, her idle wonder dissipating when he startled awake and glared at her. She hadn’t _wanted_ him. She was just—curious. It’s not like curiosity could make her much deader.

 

The cat, at least, could count on satisfaction to bring it back. Satisfaction hadn’t helped Laura in that department.

 

She can still feel his hands on her, the blaze of heat that rolls off of him in waves lingering everywhere he touched her. She remembers all of it. The wide breadth of his shoulders beneath her arms. The abrupt jerk of his cock against the spasms in her cunt and the soft noise he’d let out when she arched into him, her head tipping back to let out a full-throated moan. It happened. It was real—or some version of real. She was there and he was there, they knew what they were doing, and they did it.

 

It hadn’t been bad. She might be tempted to call it _good_ , better even than she feared it might be, if she believed for a second that there was anything innocent about it.

 

She wants to believe it.

 

She also really, really doesn’t.

 

Laura turns slowly, falling back to rest her head against the wall.

 

If he would just come out here and prove to her that he gives even the sliver of a shit, that he _is_ on her side, she’ll believe him. She’ll believe anything. Leprechauns are real. She fucked one in a hazy dreamscape. The leprechaun she fucked has fucked _mermaids_. A herd of Jesuses roam the nation, ineffectual at accomplishing anything beyond upstaging an older goddess and stealing her day, and the old one-eyed bastard that had her killed has more to offer Shadow than Laura ever did. Everything that’s happening to her, all this misery she’s steeped in—there’s still a way to turn it around. There is no end to the list of impossible things Laura Moon is willing to believe in wholeheartedly if the leprechaun whose dick she rode like it was some kind of awe inspiring revelation would just come out here and _stop_ her.

 

Another second. She’ll wait another second, another heartbeat—not hers, obviously, because that’s never happening again, but the span of someone else’s.

 

It feels like forever.

 

“Come _on,”_ she says, too close to begging, and she cringes inwardly at the desperation cracking in her voice, squeezing her eyes shut to abate the sting of tears that won’t come. Tears she won’t let come because she’s not this desperate. She’s _not_.

 

The bell of Coq Noir’s door jingles and it’s downright damning, how fast her eyes spring open, her head turning towards the sound.

 

There’s nothing to see, apart from a flash of flowy fabric and what looks to be swinging red curls disappearing inside. _A_ ginger, but not one Laura has any particular desire to see again. She’d been too eager last night to be insulted by their condescension, but now…

 

Well.

 

Fuck them, now.

 

And fuck him, too.

 

He’s not coming. She knew he wouldn’t—she’s known from the moment she walked out the door. And why would he? She saw him for what he is. The game is up. Why persist when all he has to do is wait, sit around and get shit-faced, and fuck Brigitte whenever it strikes her fancy?

 

Sooner or later. That’s what he told her, all those weeks ago. The meat will slide off and he’ll reach right in and get what he wants. This—all of this, helping her, herding her around like there’s ever been a chance in hell that she doesn’t have to stay dead, fucking her like it means something, like he _feels_ something, all to keep her away from Shadow. To steer her clear of whatever plan Wednesday has in store.

 

She’s disappointed in herself. It’s not like her to _want_ to buy into bullshit. She’s always known better than to doubt her instincts. Shadow, he’d been a shitty conman, she saw right through him too, but there was something charming about it, an endearing sweetness she found worthwhile. He couldn’t play her, but he never resented her for it. He found her—god, she doesn’t know. Interesting? Admirable? She tried to be worthy of that. She tried, she _did_ , she tried so fucking hard, but she just…isn’t. Not yet. But if she can help him, if she _saves_ him from this fucking nightmare, maybe she can be.

 

Two drops of blood, infused with love.

 

Shadow is her best chance. She might be his best chance, too. Wednesday is going to get him killed.

 

When the maggots rise up far enough to make her gag, Laura considers marching right back into the bar to spit them out on the floor again as a final fuck you, but it’s too risky, she knows where she has to go and there’s no more time to waste.

 

She doubles over, retching like an undignified drunk on the street, and vomits up another mouthful of maggots.

 

With any luck, Mad fucking Sweeney, the absolute prick, will trip and fall face first into them the next time he walks this way.

 

She hopes he sprains his dick on the way down.

 

It’s a kinder hope than he deserves.

**Author's Note:**

> laura, the inconsistencies in your logic are fucking staggering. smh, girl.
> 
> (this is an unbeta'd mess of tenses and too many commas and for that, i am sorry. i refuse to ask my trusty beta to do this one because she's waiting to binge s2 and i will not be responsible for spoiling her on this glorious fucking soap opera.)


End file.
